Day of Saints and Sinners
by Alpha Flyer
Summary: February is the cruellest month. Until it isn't.


A/N: **Happilydancing **asked for "_Valentines Day the year before they met, the year they met, and the year after they met (or increments of 5 years)_." Well, I got the increments idea almost right… Apologies, Happy - the snippets start out pretty angsty, given some of the awful things that happened to Clint and Natasha in comics canon, before they became Clint-and-Natasha in the MCU.

But things lighten up at the end, thanks a drive-by hit on another prompt, namely **scribble_myname**'s, "Every February 14th, they have to fend off the meddling matchmakers."

* * *

**Day Of Saints and Sinners**

**By Alpha Flyer**

* * *

**1982**

There is only one voice coming from the kitchen now. It's loud and already slurred.

"I _said_ we're goin' out, and that's fucking final. Gonna show my woman a good time tonight, whether she wants it or not. Fuck those brats. They can look after themselves."

If Mommy says something, Clint can't hear it; his hearing's coming back, but only slowly. But Daddy goes on really loud, about how she loves Barney and _that little runt_ more than her old man, and how if she doesn't get her stuff together in the next five minutes he'll go and show those little shits who's boss in this fucking house. _And surprise - it won't be_ _them_.

A minute later and the door bangs shut, and the truck's engine starts to rev up. Barney waits until the tires squeal out of the driveway before he turns to Clint with that big-brother look on his face.

"With any luck, he'll be so pissed when they come home that he won't remember we even exist."

He heads for the kitchen, now that it's safe to go in.

"Gonna check if they left us something to eat," he shouts over his shoulder. "I'm starvin'. Bet you are too."

Clint digs in his pocket for the paper with the little heart on it that he drew in class. He unfolds it carefully, and smoothens it out, glad that Daddy didn't see it.

_Tomorrow._ He'll give it to Mommy tomorrow.

...

**1992**

The handcuffs are cold, even colder than the room. Her arm is freezing, sticking straight out over her head like that.

Natalia tries to pull the blanket over her shoulders, but it's hard with only one hand. She doesn't know why she's been chained to the bed, like _dedushka_ sometimes does with his big dog. Has she been bad?

Maybe the fire … maybe it was her fault somehow?

"Next time," the blonde girl in the bed across from her whispers, "cover your arm _before_ they lock the cuffs."

Natalia tries to figure out how that would work, but it's hard to think straight. The place where her head was before she started wiggling smells of smoke, from her hair, and suddenly she can hear the sirens and the screaming again. She squints her eyes shut, but the sounds keep coming and coming and coming...

Until they stop.

There's a figure standing over the bed, the light behind it so Natalia can't see the face - just how big it is. Much bigger than her.

"Your parents are gone," a voice says. It sounds like a woman, but nothing like Mama. "You belong to Mother Russia now."

Natalia wants to cry, but something tells her that would not be smart. And she _wants_ to be smart, more than she wants to cry. Papa always said, _Be smart, my Natashka. Natashenka, be smart._

She'll be smart. For Papa. She is Natalia Alianovna, and she'll be smart.

And so she doesn't cry, she holds it in, deep inside. But she does ask, and her voice shakes only a little bit: "Why?"

There's a little gasp from the bed beside her. The figure turns briefly, then looms over Natalia again.

"Because Mother Russia loves you," the voice says. "Tomorrow, you will learn how to love her back."

...

**1999**

"This isn't working, Clint."

Clint hears Bobbi's voice over the TV, and something inside him freezes a little. He hopes that she's talking about the culture she's growing in the fridge, or the file she was reading when he got home, but he knows she isn't.

Still, he has to ask. Needs to hear her say it.

"What?"

And it comes:

"Us."

He could ask - _why, what do you mean, are you sure?_ Instead, he takes a breath, lets it out slowly. It's a surprise how much it almost feels like relief.

"Believe me, Clint." There's a bit of a sob in her voice. "I _love_ you. I _do. _I _really_ do. And I always will. But …"

Yeah. Those _buts_ will get you - every time.

"May as well go now then," he mumbles, and heads for the bedroom. No point in sticking around, is there.

Because he loves her too, he really does, and always will. And even though he was a dud of a husband (already, the past tense?) he can do that for her: Make it easier. Those cultures are hard to move, and the pictures and most of the things in the apartment are hers anyway. And besides, pulling up stakes is something he's good at, thanks to the circus.

The duffle should do for his stuff; his tac gear is in his locker at S.H.I.E.L.D. The only other things he'll need besides that are the box with his bow and quiver. S.H.I.E.L.D. will give him a room, no questions asked – him being a top asset, and all - and those all come with bedding and towels.

He turns around one more time before leaving. Bobbi doesn't look at him, but her face is wet. Clint wants to say something but can't find the words, and so he just turns and goes.

He feels a bit like he's bleeding out as he heads for the subway; it's probably just a coincidence that all the shops are hung with red.

...

**2004**

The mark probably thinks he is being charming, when he presents her with a single red rose.

"_Heute ist ja Sankt Valentin's_," he says with an ingratiating smile, the Saxon accent thick in his mouth.

He's nothing much to look at, which makes her job that much easier. Seeing themselves reflected in her beauty, drawing from it whatever confirmation they need is what men like him want; the Black Widow is ready to oblige, for a while.

Peter Meinhardt is a remnant of the East German StaSi, who, when the GDR collapsed, had squirreled away way too much information - about too many people, and too many secrets. That in itself would not have been a problem – the old networks still hold, and people protect each other. But he had committed the cardinal sin of the lapsed communist: threatened to take his stash to the U.S. for hard currency and a new identity.

And in the process, he had forgotten a very basic rule: _Don't poke the sleeping bear_.

She goes through the motions, like a good little girl. The smiles, the flattery, the laughter, the kiss. Coppelia, dancing to her masters' tune. But the strings on her back have become increasingly brittle, and the files in Meinhardt's study will allow them to snap.

Knowledge is freedom – both a gift, and a curse.

She takes what she needs to cut those strings for good; her 'thank you' is a single red rose, left to bloom on his shirt.

...

**2009**

"You'd kill me with a bow. How strangely appropriate, given what day it is today."

"Huh?"

Her adversary is obviously smart, quick and deadly - else she wouldn't be stuck in this South Ossetian dump, staring at her death, and mulling over his odd (and possibly unauthorized) offer to let her live. But words are obviously not his strong suit, nor does he appear to have looked at a calendar before heading out to kill her.

"February 14th. Saint Valentine's Day? I thought you Americans were all _over_ that."

The man behind the bow frowns, but the point of his arrow doesn't move. He can probably hold that pose for hours, judging by his arms.

"Oh, _that._Fucking day never did a thing for me, so I ignore it. But what's it got to do with my bow? Valentine the guy who got pin-cushioned by arrows?"

She resists the temptation to roll her eyes, given that his arrow is still pointing at her face and she should probably be focusing on that. But _… men._

"Wrong saint. That's Sebastian you're thinking of. I meant Cupid. Love at first sight? Surely you believe in _that_?"

He snorts with derision. He really _must _hate Valentine's Day.

"Very funny. If I decide to let you live, it won't be because of some fat little Greek dude, doing a fly-by shooting with a glorified twig and a piece of string. Now think about the offer."

So he _can_ use his words, be funny even.

"I didn't ask you to let me live. And yes, I am thinking … Yes. I am thinking, _yes._ But … _you forgot naked_."

"Huh?"

"Fat, _naked_ little Greek dude. With the occasional, strategically placed leaf."

It _is _funny, the thought of the fluttering, pink Rubens angel streaking that sleek menace in black tac gear who's been stalking her since Yerevan. Natasha feels her mouth twitch.

Almost against her will, she searches for his eyes with her own, and is oddly pleased when she spots a twinkle. Apparently, she's not the only assassin in this shithole with a sense of the absurd.

The arrow slowly moves away from her face, and his shoulders start shaking with laughter.

...

**2014**

"What's this one?"

Funny, how men will always crave things that belong to someone else.

"Gianduja. You won't like it."

Clint snatches the chocolate from her fingers and tosses it straight into his mouth. Without looking, of course.

"Like hell. That's just a fancy way of saying _Nutella_. Which I _do_ like. Nice try, lady."

Natasha suppresses a grin. The heart-shaped ones all have chocolate-hazelnut filling, according to the map on the back - the one that Clint "Forrest Gump" Barton never bothers to look at. And they're _way_ too sweet for her taste.

She prefers the dark truffle-filled one with the swirl on top that he'd been reaching for, before she made a show of being happy with her choice. The competition having been successfully diverted from her strategic objective, she makes an involuntary, satisfied little sound as her prize melts in her mouth.

Clint stares at her, eyes widening a little.

"Did you just sound like you were having …"

She licks her lips slowly, lasciviously, as she peers at him through her lashes.

"Yes? Like I was having what?"

He clears his throat, hastily reaches for another praline heart and plops it in his mouth.

"Never mind."

There is a moment of reverent silence as they each surrender to their respective desires. But Clint can never be silent for long.

"You think they'll ever catch on?"

"Mm-m-kmm."

"Well, _I_ care. We're down to five boxes this year."

"Evans is out of the country."

"Right. I forgot. By the way, we _did_ score a pound of Godivas, from Carter. Mixed truffles."

"We have _Godiva_?"

"Officially, they're for me, from you. So, dibs. _Mine_."

Natasha ignores that last bit.

"How do you know they're from Carter?"

Trying to figure just which ones of the tragic souls trapped in the hell of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s betting pool are sending them Valentines' gifts, in an attempt to speed up an outcome, is half the annual fun. (Almost as much fun as eating the proceeds.)

"Handwriting," he says smugly. "The _S_ in 'sweetheart' and the _C_ in Clint are straight from her signature. _S_haron _C_arter. Elementary."

Sometimes, people forget that Clint is also a trained spy.

"Carter thinks I'd actually call you _sweetheart_ in an attempt to woo you? And that this might work?"

He shrugs.

"She's getting desperate. Coulson says she's out a couple thou if we don't fuck on Fury's desk soon, or something."

Natasha nods her understanding – life's a bitch when your romantic streak coincides with a gambling habit – and looks through the collection of boxes on the coffee table.

"Sitwell's such a cheapskate. Seriously, what kind of relationship could possibly be built on a box of drugstore turtles?"

"I thought maybe he was after authenticity," Clint muses. "They're supposed to be from me – you know, the Mid-western hick who can't spell _Lindt_."

There's a cube-shaped box, still wrapped.

"Hey, I don't remember seeing this one in our mailboxes."

Clint stops chewing for a moment.

"Label?"

"Nope."

He frowns.

"How'd it get into your quarters?"

"No idea. This is S.H.I.E.L.D. People have ways. Maybe sweet-talked the cleaner."

Natasha tears off the wrapping. Chocolate fondue. Microwaveable, it says - and things become a little clearer.

"Coulson, probably," she says knowingly. "Or May. Maybe both of them."

Clint is not convinced.

"They know about us, and they're not in the pool. Why'd they be hopping on the Valentine wagon with the rest of the lonely and desperate?"

Natasha grins and heads for the microwave.

"Why do those two ever do anything? To make a point?"

She pushes the button, and eyes her partner's nicely developed chest. As Valentine's Days go, this one is definitely looking up.


End file.
